


wouldn't it be nice

by storytellingape



Category: Girls (TV), Peter Rabbit (2018), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cohabitation, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, Modern Era, Rimming, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Very Light Spanking, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: Adam and Thomas try for a baby.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Thomas McGregor/Adam Sackler
Comments: 21
Kudos: 220





	wouldn't it be nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chifuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/gifts).



> ~~Two years ago when Peter Rabbit came out, I posted my first McSackler fic around the same time in February. It brought me the lovely[StaticRaining](https://twitter.com/StaticRaining) who beta read this fic and without whom I would not even be onboard this ship! This fic is a product of our HCs and a two-year long love affair with McSackler lol. ~~
> 
> ~~I don't think this is even proper ABO but I just I love the idea of Thomas and Adam starting a family together. And FYI on the spanking, it's not hardcore and actually pretty tame!~~
> 
> I just wanted to write horny fic and then this happened.

* * *

The problem begins when Thomas goes into heat. 

Adam wakes at two in the morning with the vague sense that something is amiss. Oftentimes he can sleep through anything short of a natural calamity but that was before he moved across the pond and shacked up with the fussiest Englishman in all of Great Britain. 

Nowadays he sleeps lightly, attuned to the ebb and flow of his bed partner who often wakes him up to turn the light off in the hall or to check on the locks on all of the doors, all eight of them. 

Adam finds himself woken in the usual fashion, with an insistent tug on his shoulder. The air smells sweet, wet, like walking through a rainforest at dawn. He’d never been, of course, but he’s watched enough Discovery Channel and has _some_ imagination. 

Adam sits up, muggy-eyed and confused. His shirt is missing. “What,” he says, pretty sure he went to bed fully-clothed. Thomas had a lot of self-imposed rules that extended to their sleeping arrangements, never mind that they have been fucking for close to a year and living together for half that. First is that Adam must wear underwear at all times if he plans to share a bed with Thomas; second is: showers are a requirement post and pre-coitus, and third: the sheets must be changed on Wednesdays. 

“What the fuck,” Adam says emphatically. His nipples pebble as cold air hits his skin. Thomas emerges from under the blankets, a small sheepish shape in the half-dark with his night shirt unbuttoned all the way down to the chest, exposing a delicately pink nipple. If it’s not the most fetching thing Adam has ever seen in his whole fucking life, barring that one time he went on holiday in the Swiss Alps, then he might as well as be an idiot. He doesn’t go around saying things like _fetching_ very lightly. He isn’t one to drink thirty gallons of tea a week either, but that’s what d̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ fucking Thomas McGregor does to you. 

Thomas says, sounding half-mad, “I think I’m in heat.”

“Sure,” Adam says blandly, because it’s too early to think past monosyllables and he kind of ascertained that anyway. He’s witnessed Thomas’ heat before a total of three times, the first being in a service elevator at Harrods.

Thomas looks at him, wide-eyed and nervous. He smells, for the lack of a better term, wet. It makes Adam feel strangely thirsty, and of course his dick is immediately harder than steel. 

“Didn’t account for that,” Thomas mutters. “Must have missed it in my calendar. I normally have an app that tracks my cycle—”

Adam pulls him into his lap, because sometimes Thomas says a lot of words that don’t mean anything when his real intent is the exact opposite. Thomas wants to be fucked, fine, Adam can give him that. He’ll happily oblige. It happens to be one of his favourite activities, next to complaining about movies these days lacking artistic merit while Thomas combs his hair with his fingers and listens thoughtfully, but of course now is not the time to think about how much he enjoys Thomas’ company in general , and his touch. 

Now is the time for action. 

Adam pulls out his dick.

“Wait,” he mumbles against Thomas’ lips right when they’re getting frisky. “I forgot to brush my teeth before I went to bed last night, shit—”

“Oh just shut up and put it in!” Thomas hisses, and Adam has to laugh before rolling them over. He teases his dick over Thomas’s already-stretched hole. His thighs are a slick mess. “Baby,” Adam says, appreciatively, squinting in the dark to feel around for him. Thomas had been busy, it seems; sometimes Adam forgets how efficient Thomas can be when he puts his mind to it. 

“Didn’t want to bother you,” Thomas explains, and Adam spares a moment to imagine him fingering himself in the dark, trying his best to keep quiet. Or maybe using one of those industrial-grade sized sex toys he only takes out on special occasions (like bank holidays and his birthday) that they pretend don’t live in the third drawer of his vanity and cost an arm and a leg. He has an impressive, if modest collection of dildos and vibrators and butt plugs; sometimes Adam wonders what Thomas is even keeping him around for when he can manage his pleasure just fine. 

“You could have just sat on my dick,” Adam tells him, in the middle of humping Thomas’ beautiful thighs because he’s an animal and can’t get enough of them. “You know it doesn’t take much to get me hard.” 

Thomas looks at him distastefully. 

“For you,” Adam adds, attempting a manly cough at the last minute to hide his embarrassment at saying something so candid. 

“Just get on with it,” Thomas snaps.

“Pushy!” Adam scolds. “You want this dick or not?”

“Oh for the love of— _Adam!_ ”

Sliding into him is like sinking into sleep at the end of a very long day: blissful, just blissful, there’s nothing else like it. Adam finds himself surrendering into it, eyes closed, teeth grit, heart beating wildly. They sigh together when Adam bottoms out and then, after letting out a truly astonishing and unself-conscious groan that makes Adam’s cock harden even further, Thomas hisses, “All right then, do it, _mate me_.” 

Adam huffs out a laugh. They aren’t strictly speaking _mates_ , he has to remind himself, but he does as he’s told because lately he finds it increasingly harder to say no to Thomas, especially when he’s looking at him like that, with his face so open and full of wonder like he can’t believe how well they fit together. Not just _arse to cock_ but in all the other ways too, even when sometimes Thomas annoys Adam so much that the only proper punishment he can think of is deliberately leaving his umbrella on the tube.

It’s six hours later when they finally drop to sleep, Adam in the cradle of Thomas’ hips, face pressed to his stomach, his mouth tasting of slick and come, his fingers cramped and about to fall off. There’ll be four more days of this—a slow inexorable descent into filth.

Adam is already looking forward to canceling all his plans.

* * *

In general, Adam was predisposed to like Thomas. What wasn’t there to like? Thomas was smart, capable, though extremely fussy and detail-oriented, carrying a little planner and pen with him at all times, and he was kind to rowdy children even when they least deserved it and most helpful to tourists wandering into Harrods, asking for directions. When inebriated, he possessed the uncanny knack to bend himself like a human pretzel which while immensely satisfying in bed—Thomas had more moves than the entire cast of _Cirque du Soleil_ — was also a tad worrying (Adam has never met someone who could tuck their feet behind their head as some kind of neat parlor trick).

But for all of Thomas’ quirks and odd peculiarities, one particular adjective that Adam would never use to describe him out loud without risking certain death was: _adorable_. Thomas was adorable. He was especially adorable when he was absorbed in one of his favourite past times that did not involve a pair of binoculars and a jaunt to the countryside. 

Adam comes home from an audition one day to the sight of the living room all but ransacked, the sofa cushions on the floor, the windows denuded, the air smelling suspiciously citrusy-fresh. There’s a small mountain of packages sitting by the fireplace; Adam recognizes the label ( _Cox & Cox_, the posh furniture store where Thomas got that wicker chair Adam had to replace after it broke during a solid hour of vigorous rimming). Thomas apparently was not immune to retail therapy despite having worked in the customer service industry for a good ten years. He was just like everyone else, weak to shiny pieces of metal.

Assessing the state of the living room, Thomas is either 1) in a bad mood or 2) nesting. Because he very rarely is the latter, Adam carefully wends his way down the hall where Thomas is violently vacuuming the carpet wearing rubber gloves and a checkered apron. What’s more impressive is that he’s still wearing his shirt and waistcoat from work which hug the lean lines of his upper torso cleanly. 

“You all right?” Adam asks tentatively, watching him saw through his packages with a boxcutter with terrifying gusto.

Thomas says nothing, lips pursed, and pulls out a brand new set of curtains that resemble the last ones they had hanging.

“One of those days huh?” Adam continues. He waits a beat. Still nothing. “I got the part,” he finally says, just to fill the silence. “To that thing I really wanted that I’ve been telling you about.” He waits for a reaction, but when none seems forthcoming just raises his eyebrows and chews on the inside of his cheek. Little things used to frustrate him endlessly—everything down to the most inconsequential of things like when the trains were late or his socks went suddenly missing, _oh the joys of communal laundry_ —, but that was before he went into AA and moved out of Brooklyn, then New York, then finally the whole country where his sadness seemed permanently entrenched. 

He’s gotten better at reeling himself in, keeping his temper in check, though he still backslides from time to time and smokes two packs a day when he misses the bottle. He’d have made a big deal out of Thomas’ lack of empathy if he’d met him years ago in New York, but now he sees that Thomas’ eyes are pink in the corners and his forehead is scrunched up, and that he keeps swallowing after every word like he’s trying to keep a lid on it. Adam has only seen Thomas angry once and it hadn’t been pretty. This time though, he seems more defeated than livid. 

“You can help me you know,” Thomas says, having started to put together a paper crane of table parts. 

Adam shrugs. “I don’t know, I’d rather just watch you.”

Thomas gives him a look, missing completely the fact that Adam was being entirely honest. He likes watching Thomas just do stuff: stir his morning tea, run in leotards on the treadmill, separate the red M&Ms from the blue ones before eating them methodically by colour. 

“Are you in heat?” Adam asks, then toes the crap on the floor carefully just to make a point. “I mean, what’s all this? Isn’t it too early for a Spring cleaning? It’s the middle of fucking January.”

Thomas’ shoulders slump. “It _is_ a few months too early,” he admits. “And I’m not in heat,” he adds, glancing at Adam sharply.

Adam doesn’t ask him about work because they are not people who ask each other about work. The less they know about each other outside house and home, the better. The easier it is to walk away from everything too once it all falls apart, and knowing Adam and his propensity for fucking a good thing up, that’ll be an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Adam kneels next to Thomas after he remembers to kick off his shoes and then he takes the hammer and screwdriver from Thomas’ shaking hands so that he doesn’t potentially injure himself trying to assemble a geometric desk lamp. 

They spend the remainder of the afternoon putting together new furniture, sweeping pine needles off the carpet and changing out all the Christmas-themed candles. Because cleaning often getsThomas into a randy mood, they inevitably end up on the newly-rolled out shag carpet, aptly named, Adam thought. Thomas on top riding Adam into the ground, still wearing that beautiful waistcoat and oddly enough, his rubber gloves, which, to Adam, just adds to his sexy allure like some kind of pinup 50’s omega.

His cock stiffens at the fantasy. “I’m about to come—shit, wait, _wait_ —”

Abruptly, Thomas stops bouncing around in Adam’s lap. “ _Wait?_ Excuse me? Just what are we _waiting_ for?”

Adam’s head lolls across the floor. He’s so out of it he’s cross-eyed with desire and seconds away from popping his knot. “You’re still on the pill right?”

Again, that adorable scrunched face. How can one person ever make him feel this way, Adam wonders, right when there’s a sudden pinch in chest that could spell out danger if he looked into it too closely. Which he doesn’t, because he’s not that kind of guy. Not anymore.

“Of course I am! What kind of question is that?”

“Just— _checking_ ,” Adam says, then groans when Thomas moves his hips a little to pull Adam’s dick even deeper. His ass is fucking magic; it’s like a magician’s sleeve. Adam wants to worship it and write soliloquies. He wants to hold it in his hands and _weep_. “I just wanna—I don’t wanna have to pull out last minute again.”

“Then don’t,” Thomas says.

For a moment, Adam thinks that this is a prelude to some rougher sex but then he sees that Thomas is just about to say yes to anything, pink-cheeked and leaking precome all over himself. “You’re not serious,” he says. 

“I’m sitting on your bloody cock, two breaths away from an orgasm, do I look like I’m joking?”

Thomas looks Adam dead in the eye and it’s then that Adam grabs him by the hips and starts fucking into him like a man on a mission. Adam has a secret weakness for knotting him, pumping him full of his come as per his biological imperative; he knows that Thomas only likes it about half the days of the week, and whenever he was in between cycles or else feeling particularly self-destructive, so this is clearly a gesture of half-assed compromise. So Adam pistons his hips, drags Thomas up and down his cock, fast and sloppy till they’re both shuddering and coming, Thomas’ spine arching beautifully as he drinks up all that hot virility Adam is spurting into him like a firehose. 

Thomas looks at him, bemused, as if reading his thoughts. Adam is known to be very vocal in the throes of passion so maybe he let that last bit slip. Afterwards, once Adam’s knot has deflated, Thomas rolls onto his side and squints at the paper-weight in the shape of a dove he’d recently bought to match the coffee table. “Do you think I should have bought vases instead?” he asks.

“I used to see a therapist,” Adam tells him through a mouthful of Thomas’ hair as they spoon into position on the scratchy new carpet whose tags they have yet to rip out. “Helped me get over the drinking and the obsession with sex. Well, for the most part.” Adam shrugs. “He got me to wear a shirt consistently—ow, no pinching! Jesus.” 

Adam rubs at his nipple ruefully. “Look, I’m worried about you,” he says, “I’m allowed to be worried about you, aren’t I? You only clean when you’re pissed off or horny or when I’ve made a mess of the flat or every Wednesdays which today isn’t. It’s Thursday, okay? Fucking Thursday.”

“I know what day it is,” Thomas says tightly. “I have a calendar, thank you.”

Adam stares at the back of Thomas’ neck for half a minute. Oftentimes he wonders what it’d be like to finally claim him—his teeth marks would look _so lovely_ on that creamy unblemished skin—but he isn’t stupid. Or suicidal. He prefers his genitals on his person and not dangling on a mount above Thomas’ electric fireplace. 

“I prefer not to talk about it,” Thomas says, then pauses. “I just thought the flat needed a bit of tidying up.”

“A bit,” Adam repeats. “ _Jesus Christ, Thomas._ You bought a whole catalogue off _Cox and Cox_ which I’m still not convinced is a legitimate furniture store. I mean what kind of business names themselves after not one penis but multitudes?”

“It’s Cox with an x,” Thomas reminds him with a huff. Then he starts laughing, shaking in Adam’s arms where he’s nestled like the world’s most comfortable little spoon. “My god, you’re ridiculous. Do you ever listen to yourself?”

“I try not to,” Adam says amiably. “I hate the sound of my own voice. Like nails on a chalkboard. Why do you think I never do radio commercials?”

“I like your voice just fine,” Thomas insists, which isn’t at all what Adam is expecting him to say, but it’s nice to be told nonetheless, if a little surprising. He clears his throat twice. His ears feel hot. 

“And I’ll have you know, I’m neither _horny_ nor pissed off,” Thomas continues in the same schooling tone. “Something happened today at work.”

“And?” Adam prompts.

“You’re going to laugh. It’s going to sound ridiculous.”

“Try me,” Adam says then he pauses. Sometimes a pause is all Thomas needs to keep going, to be ushered gently along. So Adam does it from time to time; his therapist called it active listening, when before he just yelled at people and things when they refused to do his bidding.

“A customer at work got me thinking about children,” Thomas says. He sounds annoyed by the mere idea. “It just crossed my mind that I happen to be at the perfect age to have them. Any later and I run the risk of complications.” He cranes his neck to look at Adam, the soft folds in his neck appearing when he curls his body and bumps his back to Adam’s front. “Adam?” he nudges him with a bony elbow, jerky with nervousness. “Say something.”

“You really want kids?” Adam finds he has to swallow around a dry tongue.

Thomas shrugs one shoulder. “The idea has some merit. I suppose once I find the right partner…”

“Wait, what. The right partner?” Adam repeats, scoffing. He draws his arm back from Thomas’ waist, all that post-sex goodwill evaporating. “What’s all this, then? A fucking dry-run?”

“You know what I mean,” Thomas stammers.

“No,” Adam says, “No, I don’t.” He levels a meaningful stare at Thomas. “What if I want kids too,” he says. “With you?” 

Thomas sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Adam, this isn’t some elaborate sex game.”

Adam hates that tone mostly because Thomas only ever uses it when faced with difficult customers. Adam isn’t even being difficult, or returning an item he’d already worn and soaked through with his sweat. He’s merely stating facts, being honest. There’s nothing to deserve that tone. 

“Children are small people you need to care for and feed until they’re old enough to fend for themselves,” Thomas explains, “Child-rearing costs time, money, energy. ” He lists them off on each finger, getting progressively distressed. “I don’t want to subject you to that, not when you’ve got so much on your plate.” 

He means, of course, the acting gigs, which barely cover rent in this part of London. If Adam lived in Tottenham maybe he wouldn’t feel so poor, but that would mean a £30 taxi ride (at the very least) to Knightsbridge, and then there’s the fact he can’t bear to live so far away from Thomas. He can’t stand the hour-long commute either if he were being totally honest; public transport brings out the worst in him, even after years of living and breathing in New York.

Still, Thomas’ comment hits too close to home: alphas are supposed to be able to provide for their omegas but Adam only owns one pair of dress shoes that he wears to meetings and the occasional dinner date. How can he be expected to fund Thomas’ comfortable lifestyle when his source of income is sporadic at best? It’s the dawn of a new era and it’s all antiquated thinking but it still doesn’t change the society they live in and the expectations that come with their assignments, never mind that neither of them fit the mold. 

“You know as well as I do this isn't that kind of _relationship_ anyway,” Thomas says, though not unkindly. He turns his face away quickly and the tips of his ears are slightly pink. 

Adam bites his lip and thinks to himself, _one day I’ll make you say it._ He drops the subject. _One day._

* * *

This is not that kind of relationship, that much is true, but Adam has a difficult time trying to pare it down for what it is. What is it? They co-habitate; they have regular sex. Some months Adam pays his share of the rent when the money rolls in and he does his share of the cooking on weekends when Thomas is too exhausted by a full week of work and refuses to do anything but laze around on the sofa, completing sudoku puzzles in his robe and pajamas. Unlike most people in this digital age, Thomas prefers doing things old school. He likes paper and pen and his ubiquitous big book of Sudoku puzzles. He’s gone on to book # 8 since Adam met him. The thing is a hundred and six pages long. 

Adam often takes this as his cue to start making brunch, a concept Thomas is just getting around to after Adam introduced him to another concept called _sleeping in_. Adam isn’t much of a cook, at least not in comparison to Thomas who can whip up a gourmet course using a piece of string, some olives, and a can of red beans. 

Adam used to subsist on a diet of whatever the hell was in the fridge: junk food, milk that was two days away from spoiling, cereal, frozen pizza. Didn’t matter what it was, he ate it because he was an animal. He often joked he got his protein from sucking cock. After Hannah, he’d fallen into a brief depressive spiral where he fucked and got fucked by whichever able body was available.

That was then, though. Now he’s all brunches and quinoa and overpriced fish fresh from the farmer’s market. That had been part of the therapy too, the wanting-to-get-better. For the body to function like a well-oiled machine it needed nourishment. If you treated your body like crap, you felt like crap, and Adam may still feel like horse-shit most days of the year but he enjoys this at least. Cooking, for himself, for Thomas: it’s mindless enough to be meditative, and it keeps his hands busy. And maybe it’s testament to him getting older but he comes to love this too: the humdrum of routine, the flicker of scented candles, coming home to a place where he can rest his heart and head. That’s all anyone really wants, Adam included, though it took him years of therapy to admit the truth to himself. Because they can dress it up all they want but at the end of the day they have something, him and Thomas, something special, something real, that no one else can touch, whatever it is they like to pretend that it isn’t. They own plants together; they share drawers; Adam knows the password to Thomas’ safe (it’s _Harrods1_ ); they have a safe word (pistachio). Maybe it’s not that far-fetched to dream of the future that’s already here. (Pups)

So Adam makes egg salad with avocado on whole-grain bread. It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last if he plays his cards right. They eat lunch at the counter, hunkered down on matching Nordic stools straight out of the _Cox & Cox _Fall catalogue _._ Thomas’ flat has massive windows, floor-to-ceiling and they overlook the busy streets outside full of people and cars and kids just walking their dogs. Pools of syrupy light spill in through the gaps of the curtains, highlighting specks of winter dust cycling through the air. They catch the red in Thomas’ fringe, just enough to make Adam wonder if he’s been lying about being a brunette all this time. Thomas likes to keep his affairs neat and tidy and that extends to matters of personal grooming and upkeep. He would look good as a redhead, Adam thinks. He certainly has the coloring for it: his skin freckles under the barest hint of sunshine. You can hardly take him to the beach. Lord knows, Adam has tried. 

(Sometimes Adam wakes from dreams where he’s stranded in a freezing tundra with only Thomas’ red hair as a beacon in the darkness, buoying him back to safety.)

Thomas does the dishes. Adam packs the leftovers in the fridge. After separate showers of varying length, Adam finds Thomas in the living room with his reading glasses on as he pores over _Peppa Goes Swimming._ He’s been reading children’s books lately. Adam has caught him in the bath a few times, dog-earing _The House at Pooh Corner._ There are picture books stuffed between the sofa cushions and hiding in strange corners inside the kitchen cabinets. He should ask about them, in case there’s a conversation to be had, but it’s more fun listening to Thomas do all the voices than inviting potential disaster.

Twin spots of pink appear on Thomas’ cheeks when he sees Adam watching him from a corner. “I accidentally took this home after we were doing inventory,” he says, setting the book aside abruptly.

“Sure,” Adam says, and folds himself next to Thomas on the sofa. “You shouldn’t stop. You have a great Peppa voice.”

“Thanks,” says Thomas dryly.

Adam laughs. “I’m serious.” He rolls his eyes. “Come on, so what happens? Does Little George get to swim in the big boys pool or what?”

“Well, he can be a bit of a handful,” Thomas admits. “He cries a bit because he’s afraid of the water.”

“Fucking George,” Adam mutters, shaking his head. “He always gives Peppa a hard time. He sucks.”

Thomas looks at him for a long time. “He’s a child, Adam.”

“A fictional child,” Adam replies. “A fictional baby pig, to be more precise. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s Peppa Pig not Oscar Wilde.”

That gets Thomas snickering before conceding to Adam’s point. That’s often how it is with them: sooner or later Thomas sees reason, if only Adam makes a joke out of things first. 

“Read to me,” Adam tells him once they’ve both settled against each other on the sofa, Thomas’ fingers threaded through the shower-damp strands of Adam’s hair, idly tracing patterns across his scalp. They smell like honeydew lotion, warm and silky when they pass briefly over Adam’s eyelids. Adam is of the opinion that Thomas has the best hands in all the world and they are his most favourite things, ever, even when they aren’t shoved down his pants and wrapped around his cock. He has delicate hands, Thomas, but they’re hands that, unlike Adam’s, were built to mend rather than destroy. And they look ever so elegant holding a flute of champagne or carrying a fountain pen, smudged in ink or stuffed into a pair of green rubber gloves for cleaning. It’d be a shame not to put a ring on it. 

Wait.

“This better not be a ploy to get me into bed,” Thomas tells him, opening the first page to _The Complete Adventures of Peter Rabbit._

“It’s not,” Adam says honestly. “I just like listening to the sound of your voice. All stiff and upper-class and _British._ ” It’s true. His reading builds to a rhythm that lulls Adam to sleep. 

“Let me guess,” Thomas says, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “The sound of my voice gives you a hard-on.”

“I’m offended you think so poorly of me.” Adam clicks his tongue. “I mean of course it gives me a hard-on, I’m just a man, but I don’t always have ulterior motives, Thomas.”

Thomas gives him a look that Adam thinks is rather warranted.

“Most of the time I don’t have ulterior motives,” Adam amends with a small smile. “Now read to me, come on. Consider it practice for your future progeny or whatever. Don’t you always say keeping me around is like looking after a little kid?”

“I don’t always mean that,” Thomas says, sounding sheepish. His nose is pink, as are his ears. “I only say that when you make a mess.”

Adam shrugs. He’s not even going to refute that. He has a knack for messing things up, chalks it up to being born unlucky. Some people have it all, others have to work hard to get halfway there. The universe can be a bit of a bastard.

“Read to me anyway,” he says, “Just a couple chapters. Might be good for you. Therapeutic.”

Thomas sighs and flips the book open to the prologue. He gives Adam another look laden with so many meanings but which Adam chooses to interpret as _the things I do for you._ Then he begins.

Thomas’ voice is level and even, his cadence steady. Adam wishes he’d met him back when he had trouble sleeping because the sound of his voice is like the sound of running water: smooth, gentle, and better than whatever new-age-y hipster bullshit that was shoved down his throat when he was killing himself trying to get better. He tried melatonin and other OTC drugs but nothing could help him sleep better than alcohol. 

_I should be good to him,_ Adam thinks. Then: _but he thinks I’m a complete tit_. But what does it matter when those things aren’t mutually exclusive anyway? He can still be good to him. People can change. Like anything, people are mutable, and Adam is living proof that you can be putting baking soda on the scrapes on your elbows one day but then practicing your downward dog the next because yoga is good for you, good for the body.

He’ll give Thomas the world because Thomas deserves it: the cake, the silverware, the whole damn banquet.

* * *

They met in an elevator, but the real story is more complex than that, long-winded and full of more twists and turns than an Agatha Christie novel, and involving a plumber that never showed. The short of it is: they bumped into each other the second time at a Farmer’s Market in Notting Hill where Thomas was haggling a block of Gruyère cheese down to the last penny. “You again,” he said when Adam literally bumped into him, almost knocking over a stand of hand-painted postcards of the entire British monarchy. 

“You’re that guy from that store,” Adam said. “From Harrods.” The one that kept trying to sell him overpriced deodorant when he’d intended to buy a scarf.

It might not have been that long ago but Adam remembers two things from that time: the stink of cheese and Thomas managing to convince him to take a look at his plumbing. And because Adam can be a horndog at the worst of times, and Thomas isn’t the sexless monk people are inclined to believe he is, they fucked right on top of the kitchen counter—three times (or four depending on who you’d ask). It’s still a mystery how they got from being sort of friends to people who don’t mind spending whole hours together while their legs are open. Most days their legs are closed, but that’s what character development does to people. It only took thousands of dollars in therapy for Adam to get to that point. (Sometimes adults can have fun together without taking their clothes off, is an expensive lesson to learn).

But here are the facts: knowing Thomas means knowing certain things about him, such as his favourite movie and his blood type and more importantly, his birthday. Thomas doesn’t have to explicitly say when that is but Adam is pretty good at putting two and two together. He’s an actor after all; it’s his job to get inside people’s heads and figure out what makes them tick. 

Around the same time last year, Thomas took a rare day off work, got a massage, and booked himself a coveted table at _Scott’s,_ the seafood restaurant by the Thames that Gordon Ramsay himself called a feast for the senses. The next day he got food poisoning and called Adam to take him to the hospital after he wouldn’t stop throwing up at four in the morning. Now it’s that time of the year again, which Adam nearly forgot because he spent so much time running around London trying to network like a proper adult that he missed it in his calendar. Now it’s actually here, and it’s happening, and Adam doesn’t know what to do with the fact except maybe take his clothes off as soon as he’s through the door. It’s worked before; there’s no harm in giving it another shot.

Thomas looks up from a pair of knitting needles and his face crumples at the sight of Adam’s naked glory. He was singing an entirely different tune just two nights ago when Adam was sucking him off and fingering him in tandem, his legs spread haphazardly across the wicker armrests of his new (rickety) accent chair. 

“Adam, where are your clothes?” he says now, staring. Just staring. Not even in appreciation, just sheer unadulterated astonishment as if Adam had suddenly waltzed in and started speaking perfect Spanish.

“ _Tada_ ,” Adam says, with all the zeal his personality can muster, spreading out his arms. “Happy birthday!”

This is it, he’s the present. It’s a cheap attempt to get into Thomas’ pants but he’s never been good at subtlety. Nothing about Adam is subtle: not the heft of his body, or his acting, not his preference to whisper very loudly when the time called for silence. 

Thomas puts down his knitting needles along with the misshapen child-sized sock he’s apparently been working on. Today he took the day off; he’s wearing _the_ robe, his legs shine with the dewy moisture only expensive lotion can replicate, and there’s a cup of tea cooling on the coffee table along with a plate of dried fruit. He looks, for all intents and purposes, well and truly relaxed, which is saying something, because the only time Thomas is truly relaxed is on Sundays, or when Adam has fucked all the coherence out of him, or sometimes when he’s watching an episode of _The Great British Bake Off_ and laughing quietly at the contestants’ unfortunate mishaps _._ (Thomas’ idea of a good time is, after all, taking a long walk in the knitwear section of Harrods.)

“It’s not my birthday,” Thomas says, still staring, before giving Adam a once-over. Adam doesn’t miss the way Thomas’ eyes slide down to his crotch and then pause momentarily. So he doesn’t consider this a complete failure, even if he feels like a complete fucking idiot standing there in the living room without any clothes on while Thomas is in proximity to a pair of very sharp knitting needles.

“Wait,” Adam says, holding up a hand. “But last year, didn’t you take the day off? You _never_ take the day off. And you went out and even got food poisoning from that restaurant with the four point seven ratings on Yelp.”

“Right,” Thomas says, refusing, it seems, to comment on the food poisoning incident because he may have flashed the nurse by accident while his vitals were being taken. “It wasn’t my birthday. I don’t really make it a habit to celebrate my birthday because, well.” He makes a face. “Bad memories and all that. We didn’t have birthday parties at the group home, didn’t have enough in the way of funding for a cake or a present or anything of that sort when it was a struggle trying to keep us fed three times a day. But I celebrate the day I got into Harrods,” he adds, a touch of hope in his voice. “Today’s my tenth year. My actual birthday isn’t in another four months.”

Adam slumps down on the sofa, except Thomas’ leg shoots out and he nudges Adam off the cushions with a foot. “Sorry but I’m not letting your naked arse anywhere near my couch cushions.”

“Funny,” Adam says, “We’ve fucked on your sofa cushions before plenty of times.”

“With a protective towel,” Thomas reminds him. “Or a blanket.”

Well then, Adam just concedes defeat. “All right then,” he says, and starts walking backwards dejectedly, to pick up the trail of clothing on the floor.

“I didn’t say I didn’t appreciate the view!” Thomas calls after him.

Adam perks up immediately, ears prickling like a dog summoned. It’s a bit pathetic really, how Thomas has got him wrapped around his dainty little finger. Adam would jump through literal hoops for him; he’d drive him to the hospital at four in the fucking morning and back if Thomas needed him to, if he so much as asked. Maybe this is why he knows with sudden and fierce certainty that Thomas is going to be the end of him. He’s certainly the beginning, the first person in a long time Adam finds himself caring for another person who wasn’t family without regard for reciprocity.

It’s a strange epiphany to be having while he’s balls deep inside Thomas ass, sweat stinging his eyes as he pumps his hips slow and steady so Thomas feels every inch of him. Thomas’ eyelashes are fluttering; his ankles feel small hooked over Adam’s shoulders, and his cock is a pink luscious curve against his belly, hard and leaking. Inside he’s hot and wet, gripping Adam exquisitely like a glove. It takes all of Adam’s willpower not to just fuck him like an animal. 

He’s never met someone as responsive as Thomas, desperately needy for his knot, for his come. Runnels of slick coat the inside of his thighs, smearing all the way down to the inside of his knees. This is courtesy of Adam eating him out for all of five minutes, and then fingering him in a frenzy when his tongue needed a break. Thomas can start out with two fingers, but he’ll take more when he gets into it. It took four fingers before he was begging to be fucked, digging his heels into the mattress and pushing his back up, baring his chest to Adam.

“Do you ever think,” Adam says, in between lazy thrusts, sweat from the one o’clock sunshine sliding down his back. “Do you ever think about what you would look like, heavy with my pups?”

“W-what?” Thomas says, blinking muggy eyes at him. “Adam!”

“Because I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” Adam tells him. “You with a big belly full of pups. You’d look beautiful. Everyone would know what we were up to all the time.”

“You mean fucking,” Thomas huffs, surprisingly coherent for someone bent like an origami project on the bed. “People would know we were fucking.”

“They’d know I was breeding you,” Adam says meaningfully, nipping Thomas on the neck—just light touches with his teeth before running his lips across where the bond mark would be. It’s selfish, backwards-thinking (nobody did that anymore), but sex always brought out the worst in him, in that he spouted off shit he would otherwise never have brought up when clear-headed and not sporting a ten inch erection. This is what happens when you get off the bottle, but more importantly this is what happens when people like Adam and Thomas get involved. Relationships are all about compromise, about one day doing things for others that you hate, but that shit is reserved for people who actually like to talk. Adam’s philosophy is why waste any more time talking when they could be doing much more lascivious things instead.

“Adam,” Thomas sighs, and he squints at him through the sweaty hair in his eyes. “People already know you’re my…well, you know.”

“Your what?” Adam prompts because sometimes he just wants to hear it straight from Thomas. It’s good to be validated. He and his therapist still have had a whole lot of trauma to work through.

“ _You know_ ,” Thomas says, raising his eyebrows. He moans after a particularly sharp thrust, his hole pushing out more slick around Adam’s cock. Adam shudders and buries his nose in Thomas’ neck where the skin is the softest and where he can smell him, the real scent of him, under the clean tang of his sweat. 

“You’re so fucking vague,” Adam tells him.

“How am I vague?” Thomas huffs, wrapping his legs more firmly around Adam’s hips. “You should know by now that people talk.”

“People,” Adam repeats skeptically. 

“People at work,” Thomas sighs, “Those people. My coworkers, acquaintances.”

“And what do they say?” Adam asks.

Now it’s Thomas’ turn to shudder, squirming underneath the bulk and heft of Adam’s body as he grips his shoulder around a deeper thrust. “They think you’re my handsome young American,” he says, eyes crinkling a little in amusement.

“And are they right?”

“Only half right,” Thomas snorts, rolling his eyes. When Adam raises his eyebrows, Thomas replies, “Well you’re not so young anymore, are you? You’re thirty-one.” 

“You’re thirty-four,” Adam supplies helpfully.

Thomas gives him a look, then he sighs. It’s a loaded sigh, if Adam has ever heard one. Sometimes Thomas can be so transparent. “My biological clock is ticking. Please don’t remind me.”

“Do you really want kids?” Adam asks, slowing down the pace, only pushing into Thomas in shallow little shunts. 

“Yes,” Thomas says in a small voice, getting breathy. “One, maybe two. A girl and a boy.” His cheeks flush. Look at him, getting all embarrassed. Adam runs his lips across Thomas’ chin, his face, before kissing him slow and soft. He could can kiss him all day, truth be told; he has the softest lips, made for kissing, for sucking cock, but Adam has always been a romantic at heart so he always leans towards the former.

“Then maybe we should do that,” he says. 

“Do what— _oh_ ,” Thomas says, then scrunches his nose. “You mean make a baby?”

Adam nods. “Get off the pill, and I’ll breed you nice and good every day including Sundays.”

“Including Sundays?” Thomas repeats, raising a perfect eyebrow because he may not be religious but Sundays are his days of rest. Sundays are when he’s free to do anything under the sun though that usually includes cleaning the bathroom and attempting to bake gluten-free cupcakes. Sundays are spent indoors, lazing. Sundays are for crossword puzzles and leaving the bed unmade, and sometimes letting Adam suck his cock when he’s feeling mildly indulgent.

“What makes you think I’d—children are a _responsibility,_ Adam. Not a kink. You have them and then they’re just sort of there, wanting something or another.”

“Sounds a lot like me,” Adam grins, nudging their foreheads together before licking the tip of Thomas’ nose. 

Thomas looks at him, sees the mirth in his eyes and laughs, in spite of himself. Adam remembers the first time he made Thomas laugh: They were queueing to see a West End production of _Kinky Boots_ and Thomas laughed after Adam had made a stupid joke. It was the best sound in the world in his opinion, and since then he’s endeavored to hear more and more of it. Only sometimes it’s easier said than done; Thomas can be a tough nut to crack.

“You’re an idiot,” Thomas says, though it’s mired with a touch of fondness that makes Adam’s chest feel a bit too tight. He’s quiet for a moment, so Adam follows suit, and they fuck without speaking, their hips picking up pace seconds before they tumble into orgasm.

Adam is licking Thomas’ come off his palm in broad strokes, when he says, “Think about it. You, me, a baby.”

But what Adam is really asking for is family, permanence, things he knows Thomas is too afraid to ask for himself. 

* * *

Two months later, Thomas gets off the pill. There are all sorts of consultations with all sorts of specialists and he even gets Adam tested to determine his fertility levels (Adam can show him right off the bat just how _fertile_ he is but unless he has a piece of paper with a stamp on it saying so Thomas won’t touch him with a ten foot pole).

Then it’s all just a matter of synchronizing their schedules. In a cruel twist of fate, Adam gets more acting work. He’s rehearsing a play all throughout Easter; Thomas meanwhile gets himself ready for a big promotion. They’re exhausted most days of the week and can do no more beyond heavy petting when the mood arises. Thomas is on top more often than not, riding Adam to orgasm and getting that sweet sweet baby batter in him. He tells Adam to stop calling it that but Adam can’t help but think of Thomas as his delicate English pastry—soft, creamy, with a hollow inside just waiting to be stuffed full—so wonderfully delectable and all his to gobble up. Goes well with a spot of tea.

He breeds him as best he can, folding Thomas in half and locking their bodies together with his knot. He loves the face that Thomas makes at him when he’s panting around Adam’s knot, so full and overwhelmed that he can hardly breathe or look at Adam without going cross-eyed with pleasure. Adam has a nagging suspicion it’s the fact they’re making a baby that has Thomas all hot and bothered, gagging for it like he’s perpetually in heat. He tests this theory when he comes home after rehearsals one day, an hour earlier than scheduled, and accosts Thomas in the kitchen cleaning one some kitchen appliance or another. 

“You ready for my knot?” he whispers into Thomas’ ear, pinning him against the counter as he molds his body to his, chest to Thomas’ back, grinding their hips together. Thomas drops the dirty rug in shock, turning in Adam’s arms to look at him in wide-eyed surprise.

“Christ, Adam,” he hisses. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah, well, you can be busy some other time. I’m in a good mood and full of come. Let’s _fuuuuck_.” He drags out his vowels, mostly just to horrify Thomas because there’s nothing more in the world that’s as delightful as his skeptical face. 

“Dear god,” Thomas mutters, but despite his token protests he’s already squirming his ass against Adam’s crotch. This is because he’s a wonderful little pervert just like Adam which is and why they have such great chemistry in bed; Thomas just happens to have a little more self-control than a Victorian duchess while Adam…does not.

Adam shoves a hand into Thomas’ drawstring pants with little finesse but that’s alrightall right because Thomas is already hard when he grips him, leaking precome at the tip when Adam gives his cock a tentative squeeze, then another. Then he reaches between Thomas’ ass crack with two fingers as per usual and it’s no surprise to find that he’s already hot and wet. So wet in fact that even Adam is a little flattered. He pumps his fingers in and out of Thomas, and Thomas squeaks at the obscene squelching noise that follows; he can get so wet for Adam, but his slick feels thicker now, less runny, and the smell of it makes Adam want to throw him down a velvet rug and mate him, again and again. He wants to put a pup in him yesterday.

“Fuck,” Adam hisses, “Fuck, fuck. Thomas, you look like an omega housewife just waiting for your husband to come home and breed you.”

Adam likes to say a lot of dirty shit during sex but this time it takes them a moment to let that sink in. When it finally does, Thomas squirms and lets out a small whine, spreading his knees further apart so his pants pool further down his knees. 

“Then breed me,” he whimpers. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

“Have you been good? Do you deserve it? Maybe I should fuck you in the mornings and then stuff you with a little plug so you can keep all that nice fresh come inside you, hm?”

Thomas moans like a ten dollar hooker and he sounds like he’s about to cry. Adam grips his waist, but his lips on Thomas’ neck are tender because this too is part of their game and until no one yells _pistachio_ then they’re free to push the envelope. “Just what do you do all day when I’m not home? Sit on your toys? Let the postman in and bend you over the sofa? I can give it to you better than him.”

“Leave the postman out of this!”

“Fine, whatever,” Adam says, and rubs Thomas’ prostate a good amount so he lets out a hoarse shout.

Thomas takes Adam’s fingers so well, and he grips the kitchen counter so tightly that his knuckles turn white go white-tipped. “Yes,” he gasps, fucking himself down on three of Adam’s fingers, which is hardly a feat considering the size and breadth of the various sex toys he pretends he doesn’t take out on occasion when he thinks Adam isn’t home. Thomas is a secret connoisseur, and, like Adam, possesses a healthy sexual appetite, all of it hidden under a sophisticated mask of tailored slacks, impeccable hair, and British stiff upper lip.

Adam urges him along and braces his free hand on Thomas’ hip, guiding the pace of his pleasure, which he can see is causing Thomas to smear precome all over the kitchen cabinets. “Yes, _yes!_ ” Thomas cries out, like something out of a porno. “Come on, _come on_. I’m stretched out enough! _Christ_ , give it to me already, or I’ll make you scrub the stains under the stove!”

Thomas often makes good on that threat so Adam is suitably cowed, quickly unzipping his jeans and freeing his cock so he can push into Thomas in one hot, slick slide. There’s hardly any resistance but Adam already expected that. What he doesn’t expect is for Thomas to come right away on the first hard slam into him.

“What,” Adam says. “That was fast.”

Thomas goes pliant underneath him, narrow shoulders shuddering as he takes in deep gulps of air. Adam moans as he feels Thomas’ ass tighten around his cock, but he’s careful not to deliver more than a few shallow thrusts ,just to take the edge off, waiting until Thomas has regained enough conscious thought to pull himself off Adam’s dick. When he does, Adam marvels over the fresh slick coating his cock root to tip, some of it catching in his pubes. It’s almost poetic. Huh. 

“You all right?” Adam asks, like his dick isn’t aching to be squeezed and maybe buried in a warm, willing body. He rubs Thomas between the shoulder blades; sometimes it takes Thomas a while to re-become himself. Then, when he finally emerges from his fugue state, he’s always quick to pretend like he hasn’t just gotten the fuck of his life, which gives Adam performance anxiety.

Thomas sighs, an attractive flush spreading across his cheeks when he glances over his shoulder.

“I have to say, baby,” Adam grins, patting him on the ass. “I’m flattered you finished so quickly.”

“Oh, shut up,” Thomas sniffs. “You lasted barely two minutes the first time I sucked your cock.”

“That’s because you were wearing the vest!” Adam says defensively. “I have a thing for smartly dressed men bossing me around! You know that,” he huffs. 

Thomas snorts, but his eyes are smiling and his lips are soft and Adam would kiss him right now, like the titular hero from a romance novel, but his dick feels like it actually weighs a ton. He has to stand with his legs wide apart to keep himself from keeling over from how hard he is. Thomas seems to take note of this and pats him consolingly on the arm. “I’d offer you a blowjob,” he says guiltily, eyes flicking downwards just a smidge as twin spots of red appear on his cheeks. “But it’s probably in our best interest to utilize your sperm for conception.”

“It’s so sexy when you call it that,” Adam rolls his eyes. “How can I possibly resist? Jesus, just call it come like a regular person, Thomas. It’s _come_. I’m going to breed you and then I’m going to fill you up with my _come_. See how it has a better ring to it than _sperm_? I mean, have you ever heard a porn actor say _sperm_? Wait, no, I know the type of porn you watch, never mind.”

For all his protests though, Adam still follows Thomas into the bedroom, where Thomas straddles his lap and starts wiggling his hips, dispassionately at first and entirely slack-faced before picking up momentum when his own cock stiffens back to life and he starts plucking at his nipples under his shirt.

Adam nudges him onto his back seconds before he’s about to come, breath spooling out of him as his knot starts to form and lock them together. “ _Uunnh_ , fuck, take it baby, take my knot, _yeaaaah_ , gonna knock you up real good, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He moans as Thomas’ legs open around him and then curl around his hips to keep him in place. 

Adam licks the fold of Thomas’ neck; he has a fascination for Thomas’ neck, but then again he has a fascination for Thomas’ everything: his hair, his fingers, the dainty lines of him. His calves may be all lean and delicate but they’re strong from running around Harrods all day. Thomas runs a thumb over Adam’s cheek thoughtfully, his eyes still glazed over from sex, his hair mussed, lips raw from kissing—all courtesy of Adam’s exemplary skills in the sack that Adam can’t help but feel immensely pleased about. 

“Superb job today,” Thomas grins, patting him on the face. “A heavier ‘load’ than last time! Hopefully it takes. Keeping my fingers crossed.” 

Adam looks at Thomas’ hopeful face, shining like a brand new penny, and blinks. “Fuck you,” he says emphatically, “Just, fuck you,” he says, but he starts laughing anyway, crumpling against Thomas who is probably the most ridiculous man in all of Great Britain. But Adam has made peace with that a long time ago, and more recently the fact that Thomas is going to be in his life for the foreseeable future. And it’s terrifying and he gets a cramp in his stomach just thinking about it, but it’s really happening isn’t it: he and Thomas are starting a family together.

*

Adam has been in exactly two romantic relationships all his life, three if you count that brief interlude in Sao Paulo where he spent an entire summer getting piss drunk and passing out in national parks. It wasn’t love the way he imagined it would be: reading romantic poetry as a college undergrad and sitting in dirty fire escapes imagining he was some Allen Ginsberg character, but for a while it felt like the real thing: genuine, consuming. Under the haze of alcohol, everything had the tendency to feel almost hyperreal. 

This thing with Thomas is novel because it’s Adam’s first relationship completely sober. It occurs to him, perhaps for the first time, that he is well and truly fucked in the not-falling-in-love-with-Thomas department. He tries to pinpoint when that had happened because it comes completely unexpected, sneaking up on him like that flighty little squirrel that lives in the back garden of their building. Tturn around and it darts unseen into the bushes; feed it and it just grows and grows. Maybe Adam should stop leaving it day-old bread.

And he may joke about it but this is something he can’t outrun: the knowledge that he can’t abide a day without seeing Thomas’ shoes lined up neatly alongside his, or his reading glasses on the bedside table, or his special compression socks in the laundry, the same color as his Harrods tie. Adam thinks about what his life would be like if he hadn’t met Thomas, if he hadn’t knelt in Thomas’ kitchen sink and tinkered around with his kitchen pipes, and if he hadn’t casually slipped Thomas his number while he was in the shower washing away the remnants of their, as he had termed it, _copulation_ , scribbling it on a slip of paper and leaving it for him to find weeks later on his calendar by the fridge.

He immediately feels uncomfortable. That’s how he knows he’s fucked.

* * *

Thomas’ big day falls on a Tuesday; it’s the day of his promotion and he’s circled it five times over in his calendar in red felt-tip pen so it’s kind of hard to miss. He’s dedicated a decade of his life to Harrods, working his way up the corporate ladder through sheer resilience and the willingness to work on holidays. And now the day has come to reap the rewards of his hard labor. There’s a skip in his step the morning he leaves for work and he even lets Adam get handsy with him in the shower, which means he’s in an exceptionally good mood and nothing is going to phase him.

Adam books a table at one of Thomas’ favourite restaurants, purposely not thinking about his credit card bill because tonight is a night of celebration. He stops at a Tesco on his way home from a casting call to buy Thomas his favourite bottle of Merlot because even if Adam has sworn off the bottle, that doesn’t mean Thomas has to as well; he’s allowed his occasional indulgences.

Adam prepares accordingly, for what may be a promising evening, by going out for a quick run in Hyde Park. He works up a little sweat, and afternoon dew clings to his skin like shining tinsel. He doesn't even bother showering afterwards because he knows it drives Thomas crazy in a way that doesn’t involve threats of violence and being chased around the flat with a can of Lysol. 

But Adam does change into a pair of sweats and a clean tank top because if there’s one thing he’s learned from living with Thomas for two years it’s that you won’t get your dick rubbed if you lounged around naked on his precious furniture, six pack or no. 

He plants himself on the sofa, the bottle of Merlot sitting in a bucket of ice within reach. Then he waits, and he waits. And he waits some more. He almost dozes off a couple of times before he hears the door rattling. Startling into position, he smacks drool off his lips and sits up straight, counts to three and then spreads his arms out before declaring, with just the right amount of cheer and bemusement, “Congratulations, baby!”

Adam holds his grin until he sees the slumped shoulders. The hangdog expression says it all: there will be no good news today, just disappointment. Thomas hangs up his coat quietly, not bothering to pick it up from the floor when he misses the hook by an entire inch. Adam watches him take his shoes off before walking sock-footed towards the living room where he wrestles the bottle of Merlot from the ice bucket and makes a frustrated noise when he can’t seem to uncap it with his bare hands. 

Thomas gives it a few more feeble tries before hunkering down on the sofa and burying his face in his hands. Adam thinks about patting him on the shoulder companionably, but stops for two reasons. One, it just might aggravate the situation and two, he’s terrified of prompting Thomas to cry. Like his anger and his collection of dildos, Thomas is secretive about his tears. He turns his face away in sad movies and leaves the room during arguments; Adam has never seen him cry. 

“All right,” Adam says reasonably, breaking his silence. He doesn’t ask what the hell happened, just waits for Thomas to talk about it on his own.

Thomas doesn’t even lift his head, his voice muffled by his palms when he says, “They gave the promotion to Bannerman.”

“Bannerman?” Adam repeats, hoping he simply misheard him. “But that guy is an imbecile!”

“That’s what I said,” Thomas laughs, his voice hoarse. 

“Didn’t he eat a live duck once?”

“All but the beak and feet,” Thomas replies. He sighs, and it’s absolutely the saddest sigh in all of human history. Adam touches his knee, afraid Thomas will dissolve into molecules. 

“Well,” Thomas says, sighing again and finally dropping his hands from his face, “Maybe next time, eh?”

“Baby,”Adam tells him, “But you worked so hard.”

“Yes, well, what would you have me do?” Thomas snorts, face flushing, nose twitching, his jaw getting fully involved now, “Throw a fit in the store and wrestle Bannerman to the ground? He’s an alpha, he’s well-connected, and I can sit here and whine about the unfairness of it all, but that’s not going to change things, is it? He’ll still be assistant general manager. I’ll still be me.”

“I could sock that guy, if you want,” Adam offers, because he’s angry too, on Thomas’ behalf. “What’s his address?”

“We’re not going to resort to violence, Mr Sackler.”

“Well he’s an ass, and he doesn’t deserve the fucking promotion, you do. You know it, I know it,” Adam says, with a scoff. “Now come on, where does this bastard live?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I just feel…” And therein lies the problem: Adam always feels. He feels a deep empathy for Thomas, and it’s not just because he’s hopelessly infatuated with him, but because Thomas is a genuinely good person, the kind of guy who would go out of his way to help you change your tires when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and then, in the same breath, berate you for not checking them beforehand.

“I don’t like it when you’re sad,” Adam tells him and can’t help but slip an arm around his waist and squeeze, pulling Thomas flush against him. Thomas, to his credit, lets himself be held, slumping his weight against Adam. “I just want you to be happy,” Adam says.

“Thank you,” Thomas replies. “That’s very sweet.”

“I have a reservation at _Aqua Kyoto_ —”

“I’m really not in the mood to eat overpriced sushi right now.”

“Not even Wagyu beef?”

“No,” Thomas says. “Sorry,” he adds, when he sees the confusion marring Adam’s face. And because Adam doesn’t know what else to do, he nudges Thomas’ lips apart with a gentle stroke of his tongue, kissing him soft and slow until Thomas softens in his arms, sighing. “Then tell me what to do,” he whispers. “Tell me what to fucking do, because you’re miserable and I can’t stand it.”

“What I want,” Thomas mumbles against Adam’s lips, both hands cupping Adam’s face. He blows out a rueful laugh, eyes still closed and lips bumping Adam’s every now and again. “What I really want, Adam, is for you to fuck me so hard that I stop thinking about anything else. I want to be bred, I want to be knotted. I want to be so full of come it’ll be impossible for me to stand without it leaking down my thighs.”

Adam is so painfully hard right now that he starts getting cross-eyed from the sheer intensity of his arousal and he moans from the mental images those words conjure. He’s an easy man to rile up, largely ruled by his ID; he’s just like any regular alpha except it’s Thomas that turns his crank up. Thomas, Thomas. Sucking thoughtfully at the tip of his pen. Thomas turning over in his sleep and sighing in dreams. Thomas in whatever iteration Adam can get his hands on. Sitting by the window with a pair of binoculars in hand, keeping tally of all the pigeons that peck and caw at the window. Thomas in the morning, his hair spilling over to Adam’s pillow. 

“You’re really dirty,” Adam tells him, and they both know the undeniable truth of it. Thomas may pretend to be affronted by Adam’s seemingly perverted ways but behind closed doors and lying in their shared bed, he’s just as devious, just as depraved. He just has trouble verbalizing his desires in the same way he has trouble articulating any other feeling besides great customer service.

“I can do that, all of that. Give you what you need, what you want,” Adam promises and then he sweeps Thomas off his feet and carries him like a princess to the master bedroom, where he lays him down on the bed before crawling on top of him. He kisses Thomas within an inch of his life, and it’s just to set the pace. Adam tugs at the buttons of Thomas’ shirt, fumbling with the knot of his tie. 

“Take your shirt off. Show me your tits.”

Thomas obeys but not after giving Adam the side-eye. Adam returns the look in earnest and Thomas sighs and starts yanking his shirt over his head. Thomas has such slim shoulders, Adam thinks, and his throat is pale and flawless, beautifully unmarked. Adam slides his hands up Thomas’ sides, warming him up with his palms till his bare skin turns a blushy pink before pebbling in goosebumps. His nipples harden too; Adam doesn’t miss that. He also doesn’t miss the way his breath seems to pick up when Adam licks at his throat. 

“You’re beautiful,” Adam breathes against his collarbone. “Everywhere. Even your tits are pretty, _fuck_.”

“So you say,” Thomas replies dryly because even after all this time he can’t take a fucking compliment and has trouble believing Adam means every word. There’s no point in flattery; they both know Thomas would eagerly spread his legs for him if he so much as blinked in his direction, but sometimes Adam can’t help himself; he has to let Thomas _know_. 

Thomas who lets out a small whine of pleasure that goes straight to Adam’s dick when Adam’s thumbs start circling the points of his nipples, tracing around the delicate nubs till they stiffen into irresistible little peaks. Adam can feel himself getting harder if that’s were even possible, staring down at Thomas pushing out his chest, arching his body off the bed. 

Adam imagines Thomas’ tits: puffier, fuller, the nipples swollen and dripping with milk with his stomach round and full with child. He licks at Thomas’ stomach, once, two times, a long luxurious stripe from his breastbone down to the soft almost imperceptible roll of his stomach, tracing the sliver of orange with the point of his tongue. 

Thomas whines again, squirming. “You like that?” Adam says, voice gruff because it’s taking him a great deal of effort not to throw Thomas down and breed him. He smells heavenly: hot, wet, ready, slick dampening the seat of his work trousers. 

Adam proceeds to take off Thomas’ belt and pants, surprising himself with his own restraint though his hands feel slippery and uncoordinated. Thomas is wearing black briefs because of course he just got off work and Adam can see the curious shape of his erection tenting the cotton, the dark spot growing bigger and wetter. When Thomas shimmies out of his briefs, lifting his knees and pressing them together so Adam can grasp him by his ankles, Adam sees that he’s wearing a plug: slim and sleek, a new addition to his collection which Thomas has taken to wearing on the weekends, reserved for what Adam likes to think of as baby-making time. The plug keeps Thomas full, open, in a dreamy state of semi-arousal, ready to fuck at a moment’s notice if Adam so much as looked at him a beat too long. 

“You wore this to work?” Adam says, unable to keep from grinning. 

“Under the impression I was going to get the promotion,” Thomas says, sounding embarrassed. His shoulders deflate, and his whole body follows, sagging against the bed like a pathetic, empty balloon. Immediately, Adam’s heart pinches up, and he wonders how it can be humanly possible to hold so much affection in his heart for one person alone. Jesus, he’s got it bad hasn’t he?

“I was feeling rather festive,” Thomas says defensively, curling his shoulders inward. “But I suppose it was all for naught. You could take it out, if you liked. God knows I forgot it was up my _arse_.”

“You know it’s funny, but when I hear the word _arse_ coming out of your mouth, I get hard almost instantly. It’s like some sort of Pavlovian response. You say the word and I can’t stop thinking about it all of a sudden, about your cute little ass.”

Thomas stares at Adam’s lap making his point known.

“You want me to give it to you?” Adam says. “Hard?” He punctuates the last word by humping Thomas’ thigh as soon as he lets go of one slim ankle.

“What do you think?” Thomas huffs. Adam gives him a long look. “Yes,” Thomas says, at last. “I want it. _Hard_.” He swallows thickly; Adam finds himself parroting the gesture before swallowing again and licking the dryness from his lips.

“You know the safe word,” Adam reminds him, because this isn’t their first rodeo and they’ve both got two years’ worth of experience under their belts. There are things they’ve tried together that they’re never going to speak of again, and things that live in their dresser drawer that are only to be taken out on special occasions. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend to be other people: Farmhands, strangers meeting on a train, Adam as the wealthy landowner and Thomas his innocent English bride. Thomas in a plaid skirt, his left sock drooping, Adam as the swaggering college linebacker having his wicked wicked way with the new exchange student, under bleachers and in cramped locker rooms. 

Thomas repeats their safeword and Adam has to grit his teeth around a moan. “Pistachio,” Thomas says, with a nod.

“I’m gonna get a little rough,” Adam tells him, and he doesn’t know whether that’s a warning or a promise, but maybe something between the two. “Treat you like a little _fuckhole_. Just a thing to warm my cock. Might even spank you a little.”

“You can spank me,” Thomas says. Adam doesn’t miss the way he sucks in a shallow breath. “I’ll allow it.”

“With the plug in?” Adam asks, starting to breathe harder too, his nostrils flaring.

“Yes,” Thomas says in a small voice. “With the plug in.”

“All right,” Adam agrees. “Come up here, then. On my lap.” He pats his knee. “Gonna give you a sound spanking so you forget all about your day.”

Thomas gets into position, draping himself over Adam’s lap and moaning when his cock rubs up against Adam’s leg. Adam gives him a little swat just for that and he gasps, toes curling. He shivers when Adam runs his palm down the curve of his back, dipping his fingers into the cleft of his ass so he can trace where he’s all plugged up and full. 

“Hmm,” Adam hums, “So this is what you need, huh. Little spanking from your alpha.” He gives Thomas’ ass another swat, makes sure to put more pressure this time so his fingers leave a mark on the skin of his ass.

“Ahh!” Thomas cries out. “Adam!”

“Can’t believe you went to work today wearing a plug.” Adam clicks his tongue, squeezes himself a handful of ass before letting go and chuckling. “That’s a bit naughty, isn’t it? And here I thought you were a good boy. Always following the rules, always so sweet, wanting to do it with the lights off.”

“Ngh—what, I am!” Thomas insists, scrunching up his face and glancing at Adam over his shoulder. “I’m good!”

“Yeah?” Another slap, which makes Thomas whimper low in his throat, clench his fists. “Doesn’t look like it. I mean you wore a plug to work because what, you needed to have your hole filled? Is that it?”

Thomas shakes his head, hiccuping out a garbled response when Adam delivers another blow to his ass that leaves him squirming and shying away. But Adam knows him well enough: how much more he can take, how much of this he really needs. And he hasn’t said the safeword yet, is dripping precome all over himself with every smarting smack. Adam is only using a third of his strength because he hates seeing Thomas hurt, but they both find this enjoyable nine times out of ten. It gets Thomas going, puts him in a vulnerable enough state that allows Adam to comfort him afterwards.

“You know what you look like right now?” Adam says, on the ninth stroke. “Like a little omega slut, pushing your greedy little ass up at me. You want my dick that bad? Want my knot? Fuck, look at that ass. So _fucking_ — I could eat it all up. It’s so tiny. Shit.”

Thomas whines, is shaking now, because in moments like these, where their dicks are doing all the talking, Adam knows that he likes being referred to as something small, something to be protected. 

Adam takes out the plug, slowly, slowly, lets Thomas feel every inch as it leaves his hole empty and gaping. Adam can feel him shivering, his cock leaking a steady trickle of clear drool on Adam’s pant leg. Thomas’ hole isn’t much better off: slick when Adam rubs the pad of a finger against that pink little pucker. He stretches him with two fingers, then three, jams them in deep so he can rub at Thomas’ prostate while Thomas humps his thigh and starts making these choked-off little whimpers. He looks so good like this, soft pillowy ass flushed with palm-marks, his lips parted as he rocks his hips back and forth. 

“Jesus, baby,” Adam says, curling a hand over the back of his neck. “Take it easy. You want that little spot rubbed? Feel good when I stretch you open?”

“ _Ngggghhhh_.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Adam grins. “Let yourself feel good. It’s all right, I’ve got you. Work that ass on those fingers. Shit, you look so hot.” He’s starting to babble which is the norm when he’s watching Thomas lose control. “You like it when I finger you? Course you do, your greedy hole can’t stand being empty. Poor thing. You need something bigger, don’t you? Something more satisfying.” 

“Adam,” Thomas gasps, speaking actual words for the first time since their game started. “Adam, I’m going to—to come. _Please_.”

“Please what?”

“Please just fuck me already! Mount me goddamn you! I want to come on your knot!”

Adam remembers the first time they fucked like this, hard and dirty on the living room floor, still half-clothed, no protection because they couldn’t be bothered, and the kind of frenzy they were in. He doesn’t even take his pants off all the way, just undoes his fly and takes out his cock before anchoring Thomas’ ankles over his shoulders.

Then he slides inside and it’s utter bliss: hot and wet, Thomas sinking down around him like a snug little glove. It doesn’t take long before Adam is stirring him up with his cock, pumping his hips in a steady rhythm that makes both the mattress and Thomas squeak. This time there isn’t any talking, just the wet, lurid slap of their bodies as Adam fucks Thomas into oblivion and grips his ankles. Thomas comes without having to touch his cock, and Adam follows suit after a few more rolling thrusts, pressing himself into the deepest seat inside of Thomas, so that, when his knot starts to form, they’re locked together chest to chest and Thomas can only squirm as he’s plugged up and filled.

Adam grunts and starts gnawing at Thomas’ ear, in lieu of thinking about his scenting gland. Thomas allows it because he’s half-dead from his orgasm. He even goes so far as letting Adam lick at his hair. 

It’s at this point that Adam realizes their coping strategies are probably far from healthy. Thomas uses sex as a means to escape his problems, meanwhile Adam used to drink himself into a stupor. Now he just kind of lives his life in a half-daze, stumbling around like a prisoner seeing sunlight for the first time. It’s times like these when he’s made dumb by a combination of serotonin and general contentment that he reflects on how good he actually has it with Thomas. Adam stares at him, breathing and fluttering his eyes, hair plastered to his forehead as he attempts to collect himself, and he feels like saying something irrevocably stupid. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, gathering voice in the back of his throat. This is the end as he knows it, Adam thinks, the beginning of a long fall down.

Then the doorbell rings, shutting down that line of thought entirely.

Thomas’ eyes blink open and they stare at each for a beat. “You gonna take that or what?” Adam asks, shifting his hips to make himself more comfortable as he waits for his knot to flag.

Thomas gives him a sheepish look, groaning when the doorbell rings again. “Maybe later,” he sighs, dropping his head back on the pillows.

* * *

There’s a parcel waiting for Thomas outside: a long brown envelope filled with important looking documents. Legal documents, which in itself is distressing because Adam is of the opinion that anything with that many pages, bound together in a folder, can only mean trouble. It’s probably why he gets severe anxiety signing anything requiring his signature. He’s paranoid about missing something in the fine print. 

Thomas takes the envelope to the living room where he settles down in his favourite reading chair with a glass of Merlot and a tin of shortbread biscuits at hand. Adam lets him be, and Thomas pores over the papers for a good twenty minutes and doesn’t look up until he drains his third glass of Merlot, at which point he begins massaging the crick in his neck before meeting Adam’s inquisitive stare.

Adam folds up the ‘ _Congratulations!’_ banner strung up on the wall and raises his eyebrows. “What, what is it?” Thomas’ silence is making him nervous. It’s been quite the day, and Thomas still hasn’t talked about his promotion at length, or more specifically the fact that he didn’t get it. His phone has been buzzing during the last half hour but he keeps ignoring it. However, Adam knows better than to ask questions because the last time he prodded Thomas for answers, he was made to sleep in the living room. He’s learned his lesson the hard way. Thomas can be really secretive about some things, not because he’s a cagey bastard, but simply out of habit. It’s having had to live in a group home after his parents died. Living with a bunch of other children gave him a survivalist instinct. 

“It appears,” Thomas says slowly, “that I have an uncle I never knew existed and I’ve inherited property in the countryside after his untimely death.”

“Huh,” Adam says. “Huh,” he repeats after a moment, equally dumbfounded.

“It’s in Windermere,” Thomas adds, as if Adam will have an idea where the hell that is. “Beautiful place, just terrible location.”

“Congratulations,” Adam says, then cringes when Thomas smiles wryly at him. Probably not the right thing to say given today’s circumstances, he realizes, but what else is there to say? Thomas’ uncle just died but he got a pretty great deal in the end. 

Like all things, they sweep the topic under the rug because that’s just Thomas’ way of dealing. One day his fuse is going to blow and he’s just gonna fucking lose it, but until then Adam will continue holding his breath around him and be ready to pick up the pieces in case things go really bad.

And life goes on as usual. Thomas takes a week off work. Then he starts cleaning everything, organizing and re-organizing their shelves top to bottom. After another week of this, Adam wakes up to Thomas sitting up on his side of the bed, pulling on a pair of socks. He’s wearing a button down shirt and he’s got luggage packed in a corner.

“I’m going to Windermere,” he tells Adam when he sees that he’s woken him up.

Adam wonders if he’s still dreaming. “ _What_?” he hisses. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up fully. “Now?” It’s only eight fifteen in the morning, according to the clock on the nightstand. Adam has the whole day off; he was thinking of spending it with Thomas; now all his plans have been derailed. “Jesus, Thomas. Isn’t it too early for that? Come back to bed.”

“I can’t. I have to catch the earliest train.” At least he looks apologetic about it. 

Adam sighs. “I can take you to the station,” he offers.

“No, that’s all right,” Thomas pats him on the arm, and Adam feels like he’s already lost. “I can just call a taxi. You stay here and sleep. You had a long week, rehearsals for your new play and all that. You deserve to rest.”

“Well,” Adam says, staring at him for a long time and then blinking. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

Thomas smiles. “I suppose.” And then, “Be good,” he says simply, before kneeling on the bed to press a kiss to Adam’s forehead like he’sa kid that needs placating. “Take care of my plants for me. They’re my children. Don’t forget to water them.”

“It sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” Adam jokes, trying to make light of the situation even if his throat feels oddly tight.

“This is _my_ flat,” Thomas reminds him. “If I were breaking up with you I’d kick you out of here.”

“That’s oddly comforting to hear. Thanks,” Adam says dryly. He cups Thomas’ face in his hands and kisses him square on the mouth before he has the chance to escape, a last ditch attempt to win him back into his bed. But alas, to no avail. Thomas pulls back first, takes his luggage with him, and makes for the door. A piece of his hair is sticking up in the back where Adam had run his fingers. 

Adam sighs for the second time. 

“Hey—” he calls out before Thomas can duck out of the door completely. 

Thomas does a half-turn, eyebrows raised in question. “You be good too, all right? And take care of yourself. Call me when you need anything.” Even if you don’t, just call me, Adam thinks.

“Of course,” Thomas says, as if he hears Adam’s last thought anyway. 

“Call me,” Adam says, just to drive the point home.

Thomas nods. Then he leaves for good.

* * *

It’s strange not to have Thomas around. 

Cohabitation has made Adam dependent. There are things he just expects to be there: like a blowjob in the morning or Thomas’ hand tucked under his shirt when he sleeps, a warm body next to him so he doesn’t wake up alone. All right, maybe not a blowjob, but some form of reciprocal contact to take care of the morning wood at least. He genuinely likes waking up next to Thomas even if he sometimes fidgets in his sleep. Thomas snores but Adam does too on occasion. He even talks as well; sometimes Adam wonders what it is he dreams about. Now it’s just empty space where Thomas should be, an echo of his smell on the pillows. 

Adam is glad the next few days are a blur of rehearsals and fittings and the usual requisite social calls. It’s the thing he likes the least about his job: having to network in order to get his hands on the meatier roles. Just showing off his acting range won’t cut it these days; he also has to play nice with the industry big-wigs. 

Going home to an empty flat is just like the icing on the very bitter cake. He’s exhausted and grumpy and miserable, subsisting on takeout food and checking his phone for messages every ten minutes. One night, his will breaks completely and he fishes out a pair of Thomas’ underwear from the laundry hamper—already worn, yes, but desperate times call for desperate measures. His dick is instantly hard as he buries his face in Thomas’ musty scent, groaning as he palms his dick and pushes his face into the cotton. Jesus, he smells like everything Adam can ever want in a mate. He smells wet and ready. 

He smells like—

On the nightstand, Adam’s phone rings, skittering a foot as it vibrates. Adam groans—this time in frustration—and scoops it up one-handed, adjusting his dick in his shorts with his other hand. _Shit_ , _fucking shit_ , it’s Thomas!

“Adam,” Thomas says, then he hears Adam’s heavy breathing; then he sounds suspicious. “Adam, what are you doing?”

Adam hastily pockets Thomas’ used underwear and shrugs, already ashamed of himself. It’s like Thomas has a sixth sense about these things; he can somehow intuit when Adam is up to no good even when a hundred of miles away. 

“Nothing,” Adam says, sounding guilty immediately. He clears his throat a few times and runs a hand through his hair, willing his heart to calm and his dick to stop throbbing at the mere sound of Thomas’ voice. “Hey,” he manages to grit out, “Thought about coming home yet?”

“There’s so much to do here,” Thomas says, and there’s Adam’s answer. 

“The place is a sty and I’ll need to have a few things repaired before I can put the property on the market,” Thomas says in one breath. “And there are rabbits in the garden. Rabbits! I can’t seem to get rid of them, the little vermin! I think my neighbor is feeding them. I might have to have a word with her.”

“So you’re selling the property?” Adam says.

“Might as well,” Thomas sniffs. “I don’t intend to live in the countryside. I’m more of a city person.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Adam grins. “You’d make a cute little farmer. In denim overalls, maybe a straw hat. I’d bend you over the fence while the cows watched—”

“Adam,” Thomas says, cutting him off before he can continue on with this raunchy countryside fantasy. “Would you like to pay the property a visit? I can send you the address. It’s beautiful here, if you like that sort of thing. Picnics and boat rides and bird shit on the windows.” 

Adam smiles when he hears Thomas huff. He can picture his bewildered face, that disbelieving crease between his eyebrows that Adam likes to smooth away with his lips. “Thomas,” he says, trying to keep the grin from his voice. “Hey, I miss you too.” He waits for Thomas to return the sentiment but all he does is ask about his plants and whether Adam remembered to vacuum the carpet.

“I’ve managed to keep the place in one piece,” he assures Thomas. “For the most part,” he adds, fingering the hem of Thomas’ underwear sticking out of his pocket. 

* * *

Adam takes the train to Windermere as soon as he gets out of rehearsals the next day: it’s the last train of the night and he spends the entire journey sleeping in strange positions, getting a crick in his neck in the process from craning his neck this way and that. It’s chillier in Windermere that he laments not bringing his gloves. Adam grabs coffee and a turkey sandwich from a deli across the station, then flags a taxi to the McGregor Estate, which takes him another forty minutes. 

Thomas was right: the scenery is breathtaking, especially if you’re into that kind of thing: endless bottle-green hills and quaint farmhouses dotting the horizon on occasion, the sky faintly pink with morning, the road blessedly empty save for the lone tractor slogging past them on the opposite side of the road. 

Then they pull up in front of the estate, which is nothing short of spectacular. Thomas’ uncle had quite the fortune: it’s the type of home architects would describe as loaded with charm. Adam has to click his mouth shut so he doesn’t stand there gaping like a simpleton. He climbs up the crumbling Yorkshire steps, the nearby bushes quiver and rustle in the wind, and then he rings the doorbell a total of three times. There’s nothing for a while so he peers through the lacy curtains and starts wondering if anybody’s home or if he got the wrong address.

“Thomas,” he calls out, feeling ridiculous,standing on the doorstep of a dead person. He knocks on the door this time. “Thomas, it’s me! It’s Adam. Adam Sackler. Your boyfriend. Soon-to-be mate,” he mumbles. That is, if all goes well. Maybe it’s wishful thinking but stranger things have happened. “Thomas?” he prompts. 

And then the door opens before Adam has the opportunity to doubt himself further, and out steps Thomas all bundled up in a cozy maroon robe. His skin is beautifully flushed, his eyes glassy. And then it hits Adam like a freight train: his smell. 

_Jesus_.

His fucking smell. 

“You’re in heat,” Adam says.

Thomas bites his lip, looking like he wants to throw himself at Adam but is trying his best to restrain himself.

“Thomas,” Adam says, “ _Baby_.” And he steps forward and grasps his elbows and buries his face in his neck where he smells the sweetest, there behind his ear. Shit, Adam’s getting hard already. “How long have you been—”

“Just this morning,” Thomas interrupts. “I checked my calendar. Almost forgot about it until a few days ago. That’s why I wanted you here. So we could— we could try again.”

Adam nods. “Let’s do that,” He groans, pulling his face back from Thomas’ neck so he can look at him and kiss him. “I’m gonna be so good to you, baby, gonna breed you and put a pup in you if it’s the last thing I do…”

Thomas moans at the promise and drags him inside the house by the lapels of his jacket where they make quick work of each other’s clothes. Kissing Thomas after going days without it is like tasting water from a cold well after days in the desert. Adam feels newly reinvigorated, sweeping Thomas off his feet so hecan ferry him to the nearest available surface, which just happens to be an ornate table in the foyer. He plants him on the edge of it so Thomas can lean back and spread his legs in Adam’s direction, showing how wet and miserable he is without Adam to keep him company in this cold stuffy house. This view, Adam missed too. Hello, hello, he thinks, grinning. 

“If you don’t fuck me now, I am going to hate you,” Thomas says, “Very, very much.”

It’s all the incentive Adam needs. Thomas doesn’t require much prep as he’s already wet and willing, gushing out a fresh wave of slick when Adam pushes his dick inside. 

“Oh, oh shit,” Adam groans. “Shit, baby.”

“Don’t stop!” Thomas says, moaning around another shallow thrust. Adam doesn’t think he could even if he tried. Thomas smells so good, and he feels exquisite, his cock bobbing in the air each time Adam fucks into him. Thomaskeeps making these noises that spur Adam on and he’s sure that the neighbors can hear them fucking next door. Thomas is so loud: he whimpers like he’s being hurt, like Adam’s cock is the only balm that can soothe the ache in his body. Adam has fucked him before during a heat but never was it this desperate. Maybe it’s because they’ve been apart for so long (in reality it’s only been six days but Adam is of the opinion that six days is long enough).

They fuck twice more after that: in the upstairs master bedroom, with Thomas on his hands and knees, his back an elegant curve. Then in the study, in a stuffed armchair by the French windows overlooking the garden. Thomas rides him then, thighs spread across Adam’s lap as he fucks himself down onto Adam’s cock. Adam squeezes his hips in turn, palms his cheeks, murmurs for him to work his ass and make himself feel good because sometimes Thomas forgets that Adam cares just as much for his pleasure as he does for his own, maybe even more.

“Fuck,” Adam hisses, rolling his head back and pumping his hips up into the tight clutch of Thomas’ body. “Here it comes baby, here it comes. Gonna give it to you. Shit, fuck. Shit.”

Thomas clenches around him, whimpering when Adam fills him with a wave of hot come, Adam’s hands clenched on Thomas’ hips to keep him in place. Thomas wraps his arms around Adam’s shoulders, tucks his head into his neck and Adam works his hips in an erratic rhythm to chase his orgasm, grunting when Thomas’ cock twitches and spurts weakly across their bellies, his sixth, maybe seventh orgasm of the day. He must be so tired, and _yet_. 

“You all right?” Adam asks, rubbing Thomas’ back as his breath settles and Adam’s knot starts to form, effectively trapping them both in the study where Thomas has left most of his cleaning supplies. Everywhere in the house are remnants of his erstwhile activities: bottles of Mr Muscle, sponges and dusters on the table top, a mop and a bucket leaning against the wall. He’s a man with a plan. Everything that can sparkle and gleam will sparkle and gleam under his magic hands, Adam included.

“Adam,” Thomas says, sound small and far away even when he’s tucked up in Adam’s arms and breathing against his collarbone. “I need to tell you something.”

“Hm?” Adam says, distracted by how content he is. But he recognizes that tone of voice; it means _shut up and listen._

“I was fired,” Thomas says. A pause, and Adam lets that sink in for a moment. “I no longer work at Harrods.”

“What?” Adam blinks at him. Harrods was Thomas’ life, when he wasn’t at home complaining about the hours and the shit overtime pay, and the fact that no one could do their job right. He loved it there, enough to sometimes work on holidays.

“I lost it at the shop and went on a bit of a rampage after they gave the job to Bannerman,” Thomas says, biting his lip. “I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed. And then I found out I had an uncle and that I inherited his house, and I’ve been catching myself thinking: what if I move here? I don’t think I can afford to pay rent in London anymore, not without a job.”

“So you don’t want to live together anymore?” Adam says, because he’s an idiot and that’s his main takeaway here, though it’s all certainly a lot to unpack with his dick still twitching inside Thomas. He mentally rolls his eyes at himself and then recants his statement. “I’m sorry about the job,” he says, more quietly, “I really think you should at least let me track that guy down and leave a dead pigeon in his mailbox or something—”

“Adam!”

“I was joking!” Adam says. “Jesus, Thomas. I’m crazy but not _that_ unhinged.”

“I still want to live together,” Thomas tells him, because he knows Adam long enough to be able to guess where his mind often goes in these moments. He touches Adam’s arm to prompt Adam to look at him. “Of course I still do. I’ve grown rather fond of you. I mean, we are together after all. Aren’t we?” He sounds so unsure of the fact that Adam takes pity on him and flicks him gently on the nose to banish that forlorn expression from his face where it has no right to take residence. Adam prefers to see him smiling, happy, or just really blissed out as he scrubs wine stains out of the sofa or gets fucked like a porn star.

“Just say you’re in love with me already and be done with it,” Adam says.

“ _What_?” Thomas says.

Adam raises his eyebrows in response, daring him to protest. Thomas doesn’t, just slumps back against Adam’s chest and runs his thumbnail across the hairs on Adam’s left forearm.

“Look, never mind.” Adam rolls his eyes, this time at Thomas. “I’ll move with you. If you want.”

“Of course I want,” Thomas huffs. “Who else is going to father my children? But you work in the city. I can’t see how you’d be able to get any acting jobs here. This is bloody Windermere after all, and I don’t think it’s fair to uproot you from the city.”

“I’ll think of something,” Adam promises. He’s being overly optimistic but he’s got a good feeling about this. “Maybe I’ll rent a flat to sleep at on the days I’m not home.”

_Home_. Adam used to get digestive problems thinking about that word in reference to Thomas, now it just feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“We’re really doing this huh?” Adam says after a moment, because all that silence can’t be good for his heart. He cups the back of Thomas’ neck; this time it’s Thomas’ turn to peer up at him curiously.

“We were already doing it the moment I let you sit on my couch without a shirt on,” Thomas points out. 

“You were ready to inflict bodily harm.”

“But I restrained myself,” Thomas reminds him, smiling a little. “I thought you looked handsome.”

“Maybe it’s just my shirtlessness that attracts you,” Adam says. “And not my scintillating personality.” 

“Maybe,” Thomas agrees.

Adam bumps his nose to Thomas’ cheek. “Sucks about that job though,” he says, after a moment. “But maybe it’s for the better. You’ll find something to do; you always do. You’re Thomas _fucking_ McGregor. You can do anything.”

“You have so much faith in me it’s disturbing,” Thomas says, though his cheeks are flushed and he seems happy. In a moment, his heat will rear its ugly head again and he’ll be begging to be mated, but Adam quite prefers him like this now: sober, clear-eyed, comfortably perched in his lap and smelling just like him. 

“Of course I have faith in you,” Adam tells him. “What are you talking about? We’re in this together.”

“Together,” Thomas repeats, and he sounds so pleased about that fact that Adam has to kiss him just so he doesn’t get emotional himself.

* * *

A month later, Thomas moves to Windermere after selling half his furniture and packing up the rest in a moving van. Adam helps him with the boxes and then they spend their last night in the flat sleeping on a mattress on the floor. They have sex, because it feels like tradition, doing it one last time for the hell of it. When all is said and done, Adam curls himself against Thomas’ back, kissing his neck so he calms down and stops overthinking. 

“Don’t worry,” Adam says, before they both drift off. “We’ll get new wicker chairs for the new house.” 

Meanwhile, while all of this is going on, Adam manages to find a place of his own: nothing too posh, just a studio in West London that doesn’t charge an arm and a leg, where he plans to crash any time he’s in the city for work. There’s a tiny kitchenette and the previous tenants left behind an entire living room set, complete with a flat screen television. Though there’s hardly any space for it, Adam makes sure to get a comfortable bed in case Thomas decides to drop by and spend the night. 

And it’s in this way that his new life takes shape. On weekends, Adam takes the long commute up to Windermere where he helps Thomas with the garden, weeding out the tomato patches and chasing away the rabbits that call the woods their home. It’s tough work: the fences always need mending and Thomas can get very particular about the way Adam holds a rake. But it’s not so bad, all things considered. The countryside is quiet, people leave them well alone, and time seems like it’s irrelevant and shapeless because Adam can spend hours upon hours just watching Thomas clean the greenhouse like a filthy porn star with his wet rag and rubber gloves. 

On Sundays, they go into town to shop for fresh eggs and produce; Thomas eyes a boarded up shop front that has a **FOR LEASE** sign hanging outside, and Adam squeezes his hand when they pass it, already knowing what he’s thinking. A shop of his own, using some of that inheritance money. Thomas loves children. He’d make a great toyshop owner; he knows exactly what kids want. 

But it’ll take a while before Thomas comes around to the idea; Adam knows he doesn’t like to be hurried so he doesn’t say anything. It’s best to let Thomas decide in his own time. 

And this is it, their life together now: the commute from London to Windermere, floral-patterned curtains matching the pattern on the sofa, freshly baked bread on the weekends Adam doesn’t have to work. It’s 2000-piece jigsaw puzzles and Thomas learning how to drive a Range Rover so they could have picnics by the lake and take boat rides like complete lunatics, never mind the fact neither of them knows how to properly row. It’s their sweet neighbor Bea, coming round for dinner and gifting them a watercolor painting of a mountain to welcome them into the neighborhood.

One day, Adam comes home from London and finds Thomas napping under the shade of the apple tree, straw hat pulled over his eyes, right hand pressed to the curve of his belly, already visibly showing. He’s three months along; they’re expecting twins.

Adam gets a little thrill, knowing that he did _that_ , but knowing too that half of it is all Thomas: they willed this into being after lots (and lots) of sex and special vitamins and Thomas checking which days of the month he’s most fertile by keeping an app on his phone. Adam may only have twenty-two thousand dollars and a pocketful of lint to his name, but he’ll give those kids a good life, and Thomas too, one way or another.

Adam takes Thomas’ straw hat and situates it over his own head, smiling at Thomas’ blissful, beautiful, snoring face. Life in the country looks good on him. 

“Hey,” Adam says when Thomas’ eyes blink open. Then he takes Thomas’ hand and kisses the back of it. “I’m home,” he says.

He is.


End file.
